


Behind those grey and lonely eyes

by ewinofthelake



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Classical Music, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic References to Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Jon Snow Knows Something, Kidnapping, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rock Stars, getaways, mentions of foster care, mentions of mental health issues, past character suicide, real estate, shameless references to the life and works of a certain German actor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28149441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewinofthelake/pseuds/ewinofthelake
Summary: "Hey, come back to me.""I will always come back to you."London, 1998.Arya Stark has a dream job and a loving family, but she's lonely and sad. Fate has been cruel, and at less than thirty she's already had to endure great trauma and loss.One day, someone wanders back into her life. And everything is a hurricane all over again.
Relationships: Jaqen H'ghar/Arya Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 90





	1. There's nothing to say except loneliness is strange, 'cause you wear the face that I can never leave

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look, a new story at last. The basic plot is actually very old, it's actually the reason why I started writing Jaqen and Arya, but sadly I have the attention span of a direwolf puppy when it comes to writing long(ish) stuff, so it never went past a rough draft until I decided this year to take a sabbatical from my usual one shots, and finally here we are. A couple of characters have been replaced meanwhile because I can't unsee season 8, and it's a modern AU with our Christmas and our days of the week but also with ASoIaF deities because yelling 'Seven hells' is just so charming XD
> 
> ASoIaF characters belong to George R. R. Martin; Albrecht Wolfram is a character from Owen Sheers' Resistance; Eva Vittoria and Tommy McConnell are characters from the TV series Crossing Lines.  
> Story and (most) chapters titled after lyrics by Anathema.  
> Original pics credit to the owners.

~ a ~ r ~ y ~ a ~

The evening traffic was awful, and Arya just wanted to bang her head against the steering wheel.

Since she woke up that morning, she just knew that the day was going to be out of the ordinary for one reason or another. Her boss called her at an ungodly hour to request her presence, and later when she got to the office he briefed her on the new, foreign client whose message apparently had been blinking on the answering machine since the night before – that he would be in London for a limited time, that he wanted to meet up as soon as possible, and that he specifically asked for Arya Stark. Who in the Seven hells was so desperate for their services to call so late at night anyway? Whatever. It was possibly a ten-million deal, and she couldn't pass up the opportunity, not even if that meant working on the weekend.

Car horns were driving her crazy, not to mention the nightmarish dress that imprisoned her body. Thank the Gods, Marble Arch was in sight. Two more turnings and she would reach the family residence in Mayfair.

Her sister was visiting with Sandor and the pups. They were leaving the next day because the two boys had to be back at school on Monday, and of course Sansa insisted on going with her little sister tonight. The client offered two tickets after all, and it wasn't like Arya had hordes of friends ready to accompany her to such an event with so little notice anyway.

When she finally reached the first destination of the night, Arya stopped the car and fumbled in her clutch for her phone. She couldn't be bothered to enter the house now; she loved her parents dearly, but she was sure they would be keeping her home all night complimenting her on her appearance and taking pictures of her dress. And there really was no time.

As she started to dial Sansa's number to tell her to come out, the car door creaked open and a whiff of her sister's favourite perfume reached her nostrils.

"Mother Rhoyne! You really couldn't wait to get rid of hubby and kids, uh?" Arya couldn't keep the smirk off her face.

Sansa threw her an annoyed look. "Oh, come on. It seems to me that you rather didn't want to leave your cat. Do you know how late it is?"

It was Arya's turn to look annoyed. "I think you have spent too much time in Bumfuck, Scotland, and you don't remember what the traffic is like on a Saturday in your home town."

"I do remember pretty well, I... Oh!" Sansa's hand flew to her chest as she really looked at her sister for the first time since she folded her tall frame into Arya's car. "You are wearing a long dress! I can't believe you were serious!"

"It's the Royal Albert Hall, Sansa, I _had_ to," Arya muttered as she started the car and moved away from the townhouse and into the traffic again, towards the second and final destination of the night.

"You had to _come in!_ Mum and dad would be so proud of you right now!" Sansa was almost grinning. Almost. Grinning was unladylike after all.

"I _know._ But I also know that _perhaps_ my client is not willing to wait for me just because my parents are going crazy over my clothing selection." Arya didn't know much about this new client, in fact. Jorah hadn't given her much information; he didn't know much himself.

"What's his name again?"

Sometimes Arya doubted her sister's hair colour. _Must be blonde, not red._

She told her the name for the umpteenth time.

"Albrecht Wolfram."  
  


In the morning, after she got home from her impromptu meeting in the offices of Mormont & Mormont Estates, curled up in her computer chair with Nymeria purring on her lap, she had looked up the name on the internet. And what she could find was scarce. Berlin-based pianist and composer. A few albums out. No public appearances. Not a single picture of him anywhere.

This was his first concert ever.

"And he chose London to play?"

Arya sighed. "And possibly, to live."

Albrecht Wolfram.

_Who are you?_

*

Their box was close to the stage, in the grand tier, very likely the best seats of the Hall, with the best view of the orchestra and the grand piano. It would have been a real pity to throw the tickets away. Mr Wolfram had invited Arya to attend his concert as a sort of compensation for the last minute call; at the end of the performance, they were to meet backstage and plan the details of his house hunting for the following day.

When they entered the Hall, almost all of the seats were already filled, but thankfully the concert hadn't started yet. _And thankfully Sansa is here,_ Arya thought. She wasn't used to this kind of events. She wasn't used to going out at all. Not anymore.

As if she could sense Arya's discomfort, Sansa put her hand on her sister's shoulder and smiled. "This way, let's go sit down."

"Right, so I won't have to worry about tripping over my dress and breaking an ankle," Arya huffed as the two reached their box.

"You really should be more confident, you know? You are lovely. And you should relax. Maybe you'll even meet someone tonight." Sansa paused, obviously waiting for Arya to roll her eyes. She didn't disappoint. "I know what you are thinking. But please, just for tonight, have fun. And leave that utter dastard in the past where he belongs."

As if on cue, the lights dimmed, signaling the start of the concert and saving Arya from the uncomfortable conversation.

All the members of the orchestra were seated, the conductor was on the podium, only the pianist was missing. Suddenly, from the side of the stage opposite their box, a man sneaked in and rushed to sit on the bench at the grand piano.

_Albrecht Wolfram, here you are._

The music started. And Arya was fascinated right from the first note. Being a rock music lover since her teenage years, she had never taken a particular interest in classical music; however, as she grew older, she learned to appreciate variety. To the point that now the beauty of certain passages almost brought tears to her eyes.

And the pianist was... _Unreal._ Despite being so close, she couldn't see his features clearly; more than once during the performance she tried to bring his face into focus, but he never looked at the audience, not once, deeply concentrated as he was on the music, on his hands. _His hands..._ There was something familiar in the way he moved his hands. There was something familiar in the way _he_ moved, she realised. And his hair, short and shiny and strawberry blonde, _it can't be..._

She heard her heartbeat thundering in her ears, and eyes widening she brought a hand over her mouth in shock.

"Jaqen," she whispered in the darkness of the Hall.


	2. The sun will rise and tears will dry, of all that is to come the dream has just begun

~ j ~ a ~ q ~ e ~ n ~

_1987_

The view from the stage was incredible.

It was the band's first-ever gig outside their home country, and Jaqen found himself smiling as he thought that he had never seen so many fans under the same roof at the same time. _So Davos was right after all._

The current part of the tour was all Davos Seaworth's doing. The old manager had believed in Jaqen and his bandmates since the first time he saw them rehearse, and he was convinced that finally they were ready to leave behind the slums of Germany where they came from and spread around the world what he proudly called the _dashing blend of reckless rock_ they had created, so he had planned for them a series of summer dates starting from the Marquee Club in his beloved London. Two gigs were arranged there on a Friday and a Monday, and due to the high demand of tickets soon a third had to be added on the following Sunday, leaving the band plenty of time for interviews and photo sessions in between shows.

Jaqen just wanted to sing and be done, though. He was the Faceless Man for a reason. Everyone in Die Schattenwölfe had a stage name since the day the band was formed. He was no one since the day he was born. His mother didn't take long to realise she didn't want him; she abandoned him outside the hospital when he was only three days old. And his foster families treated him like a burden until he was old enough to go and be on his own. To go and finally become someone. _Someone._ Only behind the blank mask he wore on stage he finally felt someone. He felt alive. The long hair helped him hide too. And it was part of rock n' roll after all.

When Edd launched himself into the first guitar solo of the night, Jaqen stepped aside, leaving him to bask alone in the limelight, and took the opportunity to scan the crowd. The aura of pessimism always surrounding the guitarist made him somehow the stereotype of the sensitive and tormented musician whom all women fancied, so obviously all female eyes were on him.

All of them. Except a pair of lonely eyes.

Dark locks framing a heart-shaped face. A petite girl in the front row.

She looked completely immersed in the music, almost hypnotised. And Jaqen was so captivated he couldn't tear his gaze away. Song after song, he found himself watching her, again and again; and despite the mask he wore, he often had the impression that she had realised she was being watched and was watching him too.

He was amazed to discover that those lonely eyes had followed him backstage. He was always the first to leave the stage once the show ended, and the first to be done with showering and packing. After vacating his dressing room, he was walking down the corridor leading to the back loading entrance, when he came across her. She was leaning against the wall by the door, her hands behind her back.

"What is a girl doing here?" He blurted out.

She pushed herself away from the wall and started to move towards the door even before looking in his direction. "I'm sorry, I'll–"

"No! _A man_ is sorry." He raised a hand as if he could magically stop her from leaving. "He must ask forgiveness for his tone."

Being in a band didn't make him capable of dealing with people. Not in the least. The girl, however, gave a hint of a smile. And she must have recognised him by that point; he was not wearing his stage mask anymore, but his hair was quite distinctive. "I shouldn't be here anyway. But your bassist really, _really_ wanted to meet my friend."

_Bronn. Typical._

"I'm just waiting for them to... finish, I guess, so then we can go home."

Jaqen grinned. "A man sees. And a girl is right, she should not be here, but the reason is her safety; staying might be dangerous for her in a while, for this corridor will be crowded with the crew carrying all the bulky road cases outside." Holding his backpack in one hand, he motioned towards the door with the other. "Come."

She shrugged but smiled again. "I was going to light a cigarette anyway."

As they shared a cigarette that became two and then three, Jaqen came to know that the girl was Arya Stark, that she was eighteen and a student who lived with her family not far from the club, and that her eyes were lonely (and grey, he noted they were grey) because her friend Tyene always dragged her to concerts of bands that Arya didn't even know most of the times, and then disappeared backstage with some musician, leaving her to deal with the oftentimes lewd security guys. "But thankfully this time a girl found a man," he smirked.

"Oh, _a man_ is so sure of himself," she punched him jokingly in the chest. "Why do you speak like that, by the way?"

And Jaqen H'ghar let her know that he was German and indeed the front man of Die Schattenwölfe, indeed one of the bands she didn't know; that he started to use her language when he was her age, five years before, and still found it easier to speak in the third person; and that he had to do his best now to learn it properly because the band was getting big and he needed – although reluctantly – to talk with the whole world. "But for now a man only wants to talk with a girl," he admitted as his eyes lit up.

Jaqen left his backpack in the band's van, where meanwhile Jaime was busy loading a piece of his drum kit, and told him that he would return to the hotel on his own; and Arya walked them down Wardour Street, after asking Jaime to tell her friend – should she ever reappear from the dressing rooms – to basically get lost.

They merged into the crowd walking down Shaftesbury Avenue, until they reached the famous fountain in Piccadilly Circus. When they stopped to look at the statue on top of it, with a smile they realised they were holding hands.

"Everyone believes this is Eros, but it may very well be his brother," Arya started after a second.

Jaqen lowered his gaze to their laced fingers. "Anteros."

"Right!" Her smile widened. "How did you know that? Even some Londoners don't."

"A man knows stories of brothers. He himself has got what he can call a brother." He paused and looked away, a hint of melancholy darkening his voice. "Aegon."

"The Silver Dragon, right, your keyboard player," she interrupted as she shifted to stand in front of him. When he felt her free hand reaching out to hold his, he turned his gaze back to her.

As they walked, he had told her about his bandmates and their stage names. Now he felt the need to tell her more.

They sat down on the steps around the fountain.

"A man grew up without a family of his own, and Aegon was the first this man could call family. In spite of that, a man and his brother came to be very much different, very much like Anteros and his brother Eros, the god of selfless love and the god of sensual love." Jaqen recounted how as kids they met in school and became inseparable at first for their shared interest in music and playing the piano, how Aegon started to grey at an early age, and how Jaqen decided to dye a streak of his hair silver since then, to honour their friendship, to make Aegon feel less of an outcast. Despite Jaqen's efforts and concern, Aegon started to indulge in self-destruction at some point; booze, drugs, you name it, he abused it. But that, again, was part of rock n' roll after all. And sadly so.

"Will the sober and rational Jaqen H'ghar, with the strangest and _loveliest_ hair she has ever seen, follow _a girl_ and do something inappropriate?" Her attempt at cheering him up warmed him unexpectedly.

"A girl is lovely." He smiled. "And she has more courage than sense."

And this is how they ended up sneaking into St James's Park at four in the morning of a crisp June day to wait for the sunrise. And when sunrise came, his hands were holding her heart-shaped face, and Jaqen H'ghar was kissing Arya Stark.

*

They spent the whole weekend together.

Saturday was Jaqen's birthday. Davos had booked an entire floor of the hotel because of the big party they planned to have. Jaqen introduced Arya to the rest of his bandmates and to their manager – whom she soon started to affectionately refer to as _Dadvos_ for the way she saw him treat both the band and the crew – and despite the debauchery all around them, he built a bubble made of Arya and her lovely smile and for the first time in his life he didn't feel alone in a crowded room. "Happy birthday, Jaqen," she murmured in his ear as she held him close at the end of the night before disappearing into the taxi that would take her home. As he stood in the circle drive of the Savoy watching the car go, he found her beloved sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket and it was the most precious gift he ever got.

Sunday was a perfect sunny day. Jaqen often mentioned his love for dramatic architectures, aesthetic landscapes and ultimately for nice places with a view, and Arya decided to show him the northern part of the city. They went to visit Highgate Cemetery, and after wandering through the picturesque streets of Hampstead, they were sprawled out on a blanket in the park, holding hands and playing with each other's fingers while watching the occasional cloud floating across a very blue sky.

"I was not joking, your hair is really beautiful, and in the sunlight this shade is–"

"Strawberry blonde they call it in a girl's language."

"I like strawberries. I like red."

"And red suits a girl. A man is sure."

"I have school tomorrow." The sadness in her voice was the first thing to perturb what up to then had been an idyllic day. "I can't be at the gig." Arya was a brilliant student, and by committing herself fully to school she had earned her parents' trust; after she turned eighteen, weekends were hers to do with as she pleased, as long as weekdays were devoted to lessons and homework.

"We still have next weekend." He raised her hand to his lips and laid a kiss on her fingers. "Stay with your Jaqen, lovely girl. Stay with... Stay with _me._ "

The week was a blur of press junkets and flash blindness and ignorant questions from the so-called music journalists who didn't even know what a bridge in a song was, and all of the time all Jaqen could think about was Arya, Arya, Arya, her lonely eyes, her berry lips, the spark, the connection he felt with her. He had written love songs before, but this... This was something else entirely.

Then Friday came.

They had a sumptuous dinner in his hotel suite and suddenly he realised she was so young and possibly– But no, they spoke about so many things but not about _it_ and he wasn't in the least disappointed when they ended up cuddling on the couch and then his bed and nothing else for the rest of the night.

And it was the best night of his life.

They woke up side by side to the first rays of the sun. No words were spoken. He reached out and cupped her cheek, let his fingers trail down her neck, between her breasts, and rested his hand on her belly. She watched him closely. And then rose up on her elbow, leaned over and kissed him.

They didn't leave the bed for the rest of the day.

*

Sunday. Jaqen's last day in London.

So far, the UK experience had exceeded all of the band's expectations. The gigs were successful, the fans went crazy, the press adored them.

And then there was Arya. His lovely Arya.

They woke up once again in his bed, still naked and tangled in the sheets and each other. And silently dreading what awaited them in just a few hours.

"A girl is beautiful," he whispered as he moved to snuggle even closer.

He felt her smile against his neck. "A man is not bad himself."

The band's world tour would soon bring Jaqen across the ocean, in Canada and later the United States. Arya had her final exams over the next weeks, then she would leave for Oxford.

She raised her head suddenly, the smile gone. "Please don't go, Jaqen."

They discussed their options over dinner on Friday. A painful talk. She couldn't leave school and cross the ocean, and he couldn't forsake his duties with the band. There was no other way; they had to part.

They had agreed to let fate decide when and how they would meet again. But seeing her lips quiver was crushing all his willpower.

He locked his arms tight around her, holding her so close they both could hardly breathe. And only then did he allow himself to silently break down.

Fate was a strange thing. But right then, it was the only way for them to meet again.

_Farewell, Arya Stark._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Die Schattenwölfe – The Direwolves (but what matters in this story is the literal translation, The Shadow Wolves)
> 
> A real band (Guns N' Roses) played their first shows outside their home country on Friday 19, Monday 22 and Sunday 28 June 1987 at the legendary Marquee Club in London, which in its heyday (1964-1988) was located at 90 Wardour Street.
> 
> [Jaqen and Aegon playing the piano sometime in the Eighties](https://www.deviantart.com/solar-sea/art/S59-Re-Minor-583950593) <3


	3. So tell me how to do it, how to do what I'm gonna do, how to keep the life inside of you

~ a ~ r ~ y ~ a ~

It all came rushing back to her.

Ten days. Only ten days. The most perfect days of her life. She cherished all that happened in that short period of time. The kisses, the laughs, the tears. Their little nest at the Savoy where they made love for a day and a night. Saying goodbye on a sad Sunday afternoon before a taxi took her home and the band's van took him to their final show in London. The van that took him away from her, forever.

Or not.

Because he was there. Jaqen. He was playing the piano right in front of her, right _for_ her, if the seats so close to the stage he had provided for her and Sansa were any indication.

_Oh, Gods. Sansa._ Arya was so stunned that she almost forgot about her sister seated by her side. She had to tell her.

Sansa was the closest thing she had to a best friend. There was Lady Crane, the caring and kind-hearted owner of the bookshop next door who came to feed Nymeria and keep her company whenever Arya had interminable days at work, but the older woman had always seen her more as a daughter. With Sansa, it was different. She was blood. She was _pack._ But it wasn't always like that. They just couldn't stand each other when they were little because they were utterly unlike – not only physically – and Arya had her best ally in their older brother, Jon. It was only when he left home to pursue his studies that the two sisters found their way to each other.

And it was Sansa who was there to pick up the pieces after Jaqen was gone.

The music that the orchestra – and Jaqen – were playing helped Arya divert her mind from the memories of those hard times, and after a while she managed to calm her thoughts.

But soon the concert would end. Soon she would meet Jaqen. She would be talking to him. She would be _close_ to him. And in no time her thoughts got sucked into a hurricane once again.

Before long, the conductor turned to the audience and bowed, then proceeded to point out the members of the orchestra for recognition. The last one was Jaqen. He stood from his bench and approached the downstage. He bowed to the audience, and when he rose he was watching her. Arya was watching him too, her eyes wide, her skin flushed. She hadn't felt like that in years. She had to tell Sansa. Now.

"I, uh..." She forced her gaze away from him but found that she couldn't.

Only when she felt Sansa's fingers close around her forearm did she look away. "What's wrong?" Even in the darkness it would seem that she couldn't hide her flustered appearance.

"Jaqen is back."

Sansa blinked.

"He's... He... The pianist." Stuttering, Arya just pointed to the stage.

"But how..." Sansa turned to look, but all the musicians had already exited. With the house lights now on, when her focus was back on her sister she must have taken in her nervous expression in full. "I'm not leaving, Arya."

"What? No, I'm sure Sandor is already outside." He was supposed to pick up his wife after the concert, while Arya would go meet her client. "And I must do this thing. Alone."

Sansa frowned, but Arya knew that deep down she trusted her little sister. "I'll go then, but you promise me you'll come by the townhouse tomorrow and tell me everything before we leave."

Nodding, Arya stood up, hugged her sister for a long while, then headed for the backstage.

Jaqen H'ghar.

_Where were you?_

*

A man with pointed mustachios in a mustard velvet tux led her to one of the private meeting rooms located in the Hall. While they walked there, he didn't utter a word; he just flashed her a smile as he knocked on the door, and with it a golden tooth. He turned the handle without waiting for an answer, let her in and disappeared in the maze of corridors outside after closing the door behind her.

Arya would ruminate on the strange encounter later. Now she just needed to concentrate on keeping her breathing steady. Because she looked up, and he was there.

His back facing her, Jaqen was intent on staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Albert Memorial now lit up and Kensington Gardens. She wished it were earlier in the day so that he could see the stunning autumn colours of the park in daylight. But she immediately chastised herself for the thought; who knew how long he had been in town already and the things he had seen.

"What are you doing here?" She blurted out.

He turned around upon hearing her voice. "Waiting for you."

His smirk. The light in his eyes. _Nothing has changed._

A powerful instinct urged her to touch him, to feel he was real. She started to approach him.

"Jaqen, I thought you were–"

"Jaqen is dead." His face darkened instantly. His hands stuffed into his pants pockets, he started to approach her as well. "We have much to discuss, lovely girl."

He probably wouldn't have heard her next words if he hadn't been so close. "I am not a lovely girl anymore."

He dropped his gaze and sighed. After a moment, he went to the globe-shaped bar cart in the corner of the room to pour them a drink.

Arya felt like floating in a void. Jaqen was really there. It was really him. The long hair was gone, so was the silver streak, and under his black tux she could tell he was more solidly built than what she remembered. But his voice was still the same, so deep and sultry; his movements so fluid and controlled. And his hands. She let herself get distracted by his hands like she did while she watched him play the piano. How she'd always loved his hands. His hands, which were now holding two glasses as he stood in front of her.

He handed her one and motioned towards the enormous tufted sofa lining the wall perpendicular to the windows.

She sat, and suddenly realised that her mouth had long gone dry. She sipped at her drink absent-mindedly; she needed to know. "So tell me, why are you here? Why now? What happened to you?"

"You have many questions on your lips." With a slight smile on his own lips, lazily he took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa.

She noticed he was not using the third person anymore when he spoke. And, Gods, those distracting lips. A foolish thought of ginger and cloves and _him_ crossed her mind but she swallowed it away.

"I asked to see you before our meeting tomorrow because I want to tell you everything. You _need_ to know everything." His expression turned serious once again. "And I wish there were an easy way to tell you. But this is no joking thing, Arya."

"What..." The intensity of his gaze was overwhelming. "You are scaring me."

"Arya, no..." Despite the pain in his voice, the way he whispered her name made her wish he never stopped saying it. "What you need to know first is that all the things I am about to tell you are in the past."

"Just start from the damned beginning."

He put his glass on the coffee table in front of the sofa. And took a deep breath. "Jaqen is dead, because... After our final gig in London, my friends and I were kidnapped by the members of a dangerous organisation, and we had to spend the last decade of our lives under new identities."

The world stopped – for a minute, an hour, a month. Arya couldn't tell. She distantly heard the sound of glass shattering on the floor, _her_ glass, drops of her drink bouncing back and staining her dress.

"Arya!" Jaqen was at her side in an instant.

His hands reached out for hers but he seemed somewhat afraid to touch her and held back. He looked her over from head to toe searching for signs of injury, but the long dress she was wearing had shielded her legs from the shards of glass.

What she heard him murmur next was an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. "I was sure that red would suit you."

She felt so stupid when she bought that _stupid_ dress.

That stupid _red_ dress.

All those years, and she still remembered. She remembered everything.

She secretly wished he could see her, wished he could tell her that she looked good, that red suited her indeed; because after all that happened to her, she felt that dressing up was just pointless and stupid. Or maybe it was just _her_ dressing up that was stupid.

Her senses began to kick back in, knocking her out of her shocked stupor. She grabbed his hands, which were still mere inches from hers, and squeezed them. "Kidnapped? New identities? Jaqen, what the fuck!"

"Shh, it is Albrecht now, I told you."

"Shut up!" Her eyes misted over with tears. "You'll always be Jaqen to me, _my_ Jaqen!" Her lips were trembling, her whole self was trembling, and breaking down she threw herself into his arms. And sobbed. Like she did that far-away night when she got news of his death.

_Private jet crashes into the Atlantic Ocean... all passengers presumably dead... difficult weather conditions... no remains could be found... the world mourns the loss of up-and-coming rock n' roll stars._

Fate? _Fate sucks._

His hushed voice brought her back to the present. "Arya... Arya, please. Let me tell you what happened."

Somehow she found herself sitting on his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck and her head resting on his shoulder, and there she remained as he started to unfold his secrets.

_The third gig at the Marquee was another success. The fans screamed all night, and the band was so impressed that they even decided to play one of the new songs to thank them for the incredible support. Jaqen was worried, though; Aegon, his brother Aegon, was acting strange. He had been acting strange all week – he hardly opened his mouth during interviews, he retired to his room right after his duties were done, and just like that he disappeared until the next day. That Sunday night, Jaqen finally found out what it was. Aegon had started to mix stuff. He was so high that Jaqen and Jaime had to help him off stage at the end of the show and bring him to the back alley outside the venue to let him breathe some fresh air – and hopefully to talk some sense into him. They couldn't even start their intervention, though. Because_ they _were waiting for them. Right there, in the darkness of the alley. And right then, Jaqen's world went black._

_Aegon's addiction had left him heavily indebted to a powerful family of the organised crime, the Baratheons. They knew Aegon's family were descendants of the ancient Russian aristocracy, so they kidnapped him (and those they found him with) in order to claim their money back in the form of a ransom._

_When Jaqen came to, he was bound and gagged and forced to watch as their captors cut off Jaime's hand just to intimidate Aegon; but his brother was still so out of his mind that he didn't even realise what was happening to the poor drummer. Then it was Jaqen's turn. He was beaten and tortured within an inch of his life, and still his brother showed no reaction._

_No one ever came to their rescue because Aegon's family money was a long-forgotten memory – and as much as Davos stood up for them, the record company would never have paid such an amount for them._

_And when the Baratheons found out, their tactics changed._

_Jaqen remembered a mouldy darkened room, Jaime and himself lying in agony on the floor, his brother – now in a severe withdrawal – roaming aimlessly and yelling for a dose._

_And a gun, loaded with a single bullet and purposefully left there on a table; a test for his brother, a quick way out of his hell._

_He only had to choose._

"And he took the gun, Arya. Aegon took the gun and shot himself in the head."


	4. I'm not a saviour or a seer, I'm as lost as anyone, but if the chance of living scares you then you'll never be alone

~ j ~ a ~ q ~ e ~ n ~

He never spoke about the past. He could not even do it. Not until Robert Baratheon was finally put behind bars to serve a life sentence.

And he never truly learned to deal with people. So perhaps he should not tell her, perhaps he was making a mistake, but he didn't care, they had lost so much time and now he just wanted to be with her. Arya. Her warm touch against him, her sweet scent around him. No, he didn't want to be without her anymore. And he would not be keeping secrets from her.

Playing a concert in London was a calculated move, because what better place than the Royal Albert Hall to introduce Albrecht Wolfram to the public. Buying a house there... Well, it was not. Perhaps it was just an impulsive decision he would later regret, perhaps it was too bold from his part, but he just wanted to be where she was – and it was high time that he started to invest his money after all; Jaqen was dead, but he still got the royalties from his albums with Die Schattenwölfe, and now those from his solo albums as a pianist as well. No, he could never regret it. And if she didn't want him with her, he would be fine just knowing that she was near and happy and...

And safe.

Because he couldn't lose her like he had lost his brother.

When he mentioned Aegon's name, Arya lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyes filled with sorrow.

He brought a hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing away the ghost of her tears. "Lovely girl, we should continue tomorrow."

"I told you, I'm not–"

"And I am not Jaqen anymore, but you will not listen to me."

After a tense second, they both chuckled.

_So lovely. So beautiful._ The beautiful girl had now become a beautiful woman. Her heart-shaped face, her eyes...

"I don't know what to say. I couldn't even imagine..." Those grey and lonely eyes looked deeply into his. "I want to know everything. Tomorrow."

He inclined his head. "Tomorrow."

"I will take you to visit three different places, in different parts of the city. You haven't given us much information on what you are looking for, so..." Her arms were still around his neck. "Gods, Jaqen, a German guy who looks for _nice places with a view!_ " With a big grin on her face, she let one arm slide down and punched him jokingly in the chest.

_Nothing has changed._

"I knew it couldn't be you, but..." She swallowed. "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly."

Never, never regret it.

Her hand stayed on his chest, her gaze still locked on his. And her lips, so close, so tempting. Her lips. How he missed her delicious berry lips. He could taste them. Could he taste them? He should.

He did.

They were just as he remembered.

She moaned into his mouth and started to deepen the kiss. The spark, the connection, everything was still there. Earlier, when she dropped her glass, he was afraid to touch her, afraid she could dissolve like she always did in his dreams, but now her warm touch was real, her hand trailing up his neck, caressing his cheek, and soon he let his arms encircle her waist, hold her to him, Arya, lovely Arya, perfect Arya, until–

"Very well, Mr Wolfram, I shall see you at ten for our appointment. I wish you a good night." Still panting from their kiss, she disentangled herself from his arms, stood and walked to the door.

He shouldn't have.

But by the time he realised it, only a faint smell remained of her, a whiff of her sweet scent lingering in the air.

*

Jaqen felt awful. A horrible guilt kept him awake all night; he had ruined everything. Hells, he was even forcing her to work on a Sunday morning.

She had just picked him up at the hotel. He was staying at the Ritz this time. At first, he considered staying again at the Savoy, but soon he realised that he didn't want to. He didn't want to touch the fond memories he had made there with Arya; they were too precious to him. They would make new ones. Somewhere else. If she wanted to.

They were driving to the first place she had planned to show him, a two-storey penthouse flat in Chelsea with a stunning view of the Thames, she had called it.

But something was wrong.

"So, Mr Wolfram, how do you like London so far?" She was all business. And all coldness.

"Arya, please–"

"Can we keep this professional?" She didn't even let him start. "Why did you ask for me at the office? Did you think that we could just resume from where we left off? Didn't you think that maybe, just _maybe_ I had built a life after– After you died?"

"I asked for you because I know you are the best."

He had never known how to use a computer, but he forced himself to learn. For her, to look for her. And when he did, he was so proud of what he found.

"And..." His voice lowered to a whisper. "I missed you."

They stopped at a red light, and she quickly turned to face him. "You know, I admit that seeing you on that stage yesterday was a shock; a pleasing shock, somehow. But I won't be caught off guard again."

_He_ was caught off guard now. "Lovely girl, that was not–"

" _Lovely,_ you keep saying," she muttered. "There's nothing lovely in me anymore."

Yes, something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. This was not the girl he met in the past; this was not even the woman he briefly held the night before.

When they got to the penthouse, Arya parked her car and proceeded to illustrate all the features and specifics that Jaqen needed to know. As they explored the different rooms, he found himself fascinated by her concentration and so enthralled by how passionately she spoke. She undoubtedly loved her job. And it was clear it was something that put her at ease, because she seemed to relax a little bit.

The place was impressive. Over-sized windows overlooking the river, plenty of natural light falling freely throughout the spaces, a large wrap-around balcony offering a spectacular view of the entire city. He was almost sold, but of course he knew that she had scheduled more visits, and of course visiting more places meant more time with Arya.

They drove to the second place – a detached house on a private gated road close to Hampstead Heath, a brand new construction designed by an Italian architect. The trip was much longer than the first, so Jaqen tried to talk to her again.

"Arya, I want you to know that I came looking for you as soon as I was sure it was safe." His voice was thick with emotion. Sometimes he was still overwhelmed by the thought that he was finally free. That his life was finally back to normal. That he could finally see her again. He cleared his throat. "Safe for me, but most of all safe for the people I care about."

She was silent for a long while. When he made to speak again, she cut him off. "But why? Why the need to fake your death?"

"Albrecht Wolfram can disappear anytime. But Jaqen H'ghar... He hid behind a mask, yes, but everyone knew his name. It was everywhere, on the press, on the radio. They needed to come up with something. And I had no say in what they decided. It always pains me to think what you must have felt when the news was announced."

And what pained him the most now was that he had never truly reflected on how she would react when she found out that Jaqen H'ghar was still alive.

"Do you still want to know what happened after Aegon's death?" He pleaded.

She narrowed her eyes; but after another long pause, the hard expression on her face started to soften and she replied. "Of course I want to know, silly man. But you have to understand that I can't–" She seemed to struggle to find the right words. "Yesterday... It was literally like seeing a ghost." She threw him a troubled glance, before reaching over and squeezing his knee. "Let's finish our visits; then we can talk."  
  


The house in Hampstead was simply astonishing in its minimalism. Walls of stone and glass doors enshrined solid wood floors and oxidised metal detailing, all in a carefully curated palette of earth and natural tones; a dramatic spiral staircase resembling that of an ancient castle led down to the underground indoor pool and spa area; and the view...

A pang of longing gripped his chest as images of the day he spent in the neighbourhood with his lovely girl when he was still Jaqen flashed before his eyes.

"This is it." He didn't even need to think about it.

"It?" Arya looked puzzled. "What is _it?_ "

They were standing on the rooftop terrace overlooking the London skyline. "I want _this,_ silly girl," he mocked her. "This place."

"Oh. Oh! Are you sure you don't want to see the third before deciding? Although..." She trailed off.

"Although what?"

"Well..." She reverted to her professional tone. "Despite being nestled in a secluded setting, this house with its simplicity in lines and colours helps bring out the owner's character, rather than cover it up. And since you're not hiding anymore... behind a mask, or from your captors... I had a feeling this could be your favourite one. It's my favourite one too," she trailed off again.

But her feeble voice sang loud as the sound of his piano to his open ears.

As they walked down the stairs, they discussed the details of the transaction.

"I am leaving all the legalese to Daario. Here," he reached into his breast pocket and handed her a business card. "Daario Naharis. He is my lawyer, my manager, he runs errands for me, and I–"

"Is that another fake name, right?" She couldn't hide her amusement.

Jaqen grumbled. "It is a Dutch name. And as I was trying to say, I believe you two have met yesterday. Pointed mustachios, and–"

"And a golden tooth. Yes, we've met," she grinned. "Quite the flamboyant guy, isn't he? He should also, I don't know, dye his hair blue or something."

"Oh, please, no. He did that, once." He almost shuddered at the memory. "As an engagement gift, his fiancée asked him to let her dye his hair platinum blonde like hers. But something must have gone wrong when she mixed the liquids, and his head turned blue instead. It was not a pretty sight."

"You were lucky it was Jorah to intercept your message." She was still grinning as she put the card in her briefcase. "But to close the deal, this Daario has to meet with my other boss, Lyanna. And _that_ is going to be a lot of fun, I'm telling you."

*

They were sipping red wine at a small restaurant south of the park.

After leaving the house, they decided to stay in Hampstead for lunch. The October air was still pleasantly warm at that time of day, so they chose to sit at a table outside.

"I am so sorry for dragging you around during the weekend. You surely had your plans and I ruined them."

"Jaqen, I spend every day of the week in other people's houses. The best plans I have for my weekends are staying in _my_ house, splayed out on the couch, holding a book with one hand and scratching Nymeria with the other." At his raised eyebrow, she elaborated. "She's my cat."

The corners of his lips curled up in a soft smile. "Tell me about the house of a real estate agent. It must be perfect."

"I don't know if the perfect house does exist."  
  


Her voice turned increasingly flat as she described the terraced house with a blue door in Notting Hill that she had bought a couple of years before – and that she hadn't finished decorating yet.

"I guess I'm not good with that." She rested her cheek against her glass. "I noticed you're now very good with your English instead."

She seemed to be in a good mood now but something was still wrong. Their meeting the night before was rushed, but throughout their day together he had enough time to watch her, and without a doubt she was not the girl he met in the past. Not anymore.

Arya had lost her smile. And her eyes... They were still so lonely.

"A man can still speak like Jaqen if a girl desires." He winked at her, desperate to see her smile again.

She did, a little, but her smile did not reach her eyes. "A girl desires to hear the rest of a man's secrets."

He sipped his wine and gazed into it, collecting his thoughts. This would certainly not help bring her smile back, but he had to tell her; he had been just delaying the inevitable.

He put his glass down on the table with a soft clink and began.

"After the shot, it was madness. Maybe they did not believe Aegon could really do it. _I_ did not believe he could really do it. And yet it did happen. My brother was gone. As far as I knew, Jaime was gone as well. I could not think straight. I thought I had lost my mind; one moment I was crawling on a squalid floor, and the next I was running in a field. While they carried the–" He swallowed. He still had trouble speaking the word sometimes. "While they carried the body away, somehow I managed to escape. And I did not stop. I ran, I ran until my legs could not carry me anymore. I remember crossing multiple train tracks, climbing in a goods wagon through a side door left open. I did not know where I was going, but my instinct knew that I had to go as far as I could. I guess I passed out while I was on the train, because the next thing I remember is waking up in a warm bed, and someone tending to my wounds."

Arya was listening, speechless, her fingers wrapped so tightly around her glass that Jaqen was afraid she might break it and hurt herself. He reached across the table, and as if out of reflex she finally loosened her death grip. With his fingers now cradled in her hands, he continued.

"When my wounds started to get better, I had to decide what to do. My only family, the only family I had ever had, had died before my eyes. I did not know who I was anymore, Arya. I felt I was not even a man anymore. I decided to stay and give back to those who helped me. The place was a quaint family farm in a charming location and pretty as a picture, truly, but they were struggling to survive, so I convinced them to rent rooms to travellers for some extra money and I helped with property maintenance and renovation."

Until, one day, there was a knock at the door. It was a nice-looking couple around Jaqen's age, both brown-haired and with strong accents; a couple of tourists, for sure. But they introduced themselves as Sergeant Eva Vittoria and Detective Tommy McConnell. And they weren't looking for a room; they were looking for Jaqen.

"I saw my captors, and I knew things, and... As I told you last night, these Baratheons were powerful. I needed to give evidence against them. I needed to join a witness protection programme. And this is how Jaqen H'ghar died and Albrecht Wolfram was born."

Arya looked deeply shaken. She let go of his hands just long enough to take another sip of her wine. They never broke eye contact.

"Eva and Tommy relocated me to Germany; hiding in plain sight was the best option for me, they said. For a while, it was like being kidnapped again because I always had to stay inside with someone babysitting me. One by one I met the other agents of their unit. One of them, a kindly man with whom I started to train, became like a master to me. He taught me martial arts, he suggested that I should practice tai chi to regain my mental health, my balance. He showed me that by helping others I could help myself as well; that I could become a blood donor, for a start. And I still am." He paused and lowered his gaze. "I felt useless, Arya. I just ran away without looking back. I later found out that they had cleared the place, and that Jaime survived. He must hate me now. They _all_ must hate me. They were given new identities as well, they were relocated all across Europe, but I never knew exactly what happened to them. And now that everything is over, probably I do not even want to know."

"How could you say they hate you?" She crushed his hands in hers. "You didn't have a choice!"

"I did. Before he took the gun, if I could just–"

"You couldn't save him, Jaqen. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved." Her angry outburst gone, her face was a mask of sadness.

"Arya, I am visiting that farm next weekend. I want you to come with me. I want you to see the place where I became a man again." He was supposed to go alone; but like a hurricane, a wave of yearning came over him. His voice became weak. "Please, come. As my friend. I am not asking anything of you. You will have your privacy, your room. We will not even have to spend our days together if you do not want to, but please, I need you to come, I need you to see."

_This,_ perhaps, was the most impulsive decision of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly."  
> (You've Got Mail)
> 
> There's tai chi in this story because of Buffy 3x06 ;)
> 
> And although a certain German actor has just posted [a pic of himself outside a blue door](https://ewinofthelake.tumblr.com/post/641024305467179008/from-ig-tom-wlaschiha-found-spring-malta-tom), Arya's blue door is obviously a little nod to Notting Hill (and although all the edits are all set, there will be one more now because I can't let such a perfect pic go to waste, can I XD)


	5. I abhor you, I condemn you, 'cause this pain will never end

~ a ~ r ~ y ~ a ~

In less than twenty-four hours, that man had managed to turn her life upside down. Again.

After their lunch, she drove him back to the Ritz, and left with the promise of thinking about his offer. A weekend away, possibly alone with him, far from the safe nest that was her house. What was she supposed to do?

She rushed to the townhouse, hoping that her sister had a rational answer.

In the afternoon, the whole Stark family would gather to say a proper farewell to Sansa and her men – the little two and the not so little one – since they most likely wouldn't be all together in the same place again until the Christmas holidays.

"Hound," Arya smirked when the front door opened.

"Bitch," Sandor countered as he let her in.

It was their affectionate way to acknowledge each other. It all started the day she spotted him making puppy eyes at her sister.

_I'm not a bloody puppy!_ He had literally barked at her.

_Right, you're a terrifying hound,_ she had teased in response.

_And you're a cold little bitch, aren't you?_

An indissoluble friendship was born.

As they walked towards the living room, Sandor informed her that her parents were still out shopping with the pups, but her brother was already there. "And he brought along his new boyfriend."

Jon seemed totally smitten, and it took mere minutes for Arya to decide that Tormund was – in his own, wild way – adorable. And she was sure she would soon find the time to bond with him; but now she needed Sansa. Besides, she was not so sure she could tell everyone what Jaqen had told her.

With a silly excuse, she took her sister by the hand and dragged her into the kitchen.

Sansa closed the sliding doors behind them and crossed her arms. "I knew I should have stayed yesterday."

Arya had never been able to mask her emotions well, after all. As she grabbed the orange juice out of the fridge, she began to describe the previous night's events. Starting from the kiss.

"The _what?!_ " Her sister shrieked. "Did he kiss you?!"

"It was _mutual,_ Sansa. And I was still shocked after crying, and his lips were so familiar, and I missed him so much–"

"Wait! Why did you cry? Oh, Gods, you haven't cried since–"

"Yeah," Arya cut her short as she opened the cabinet where their parents kept the glasses. "It doesn't matter anyway because then I had one of my crises, I panicked and left."

And she couldn't believe she was still so angry in the morning. Angry, and sad, and scared.

As always in times like these, all that Doctor Forel had taught her went racing through her head. _Calm as still water, strong as a bear, fierce as a wolverine... Fear cuts deeper than daggers._

Sandor's words, too, often echoed in her mind.

_Lots of people see a psychologist,_ she had told him after her first therapy session.

_Lots of cunts,_ he had growled back. _You're strong, girl, and you can save yourself. On your own. But you must want it. Because no one can save someone who doesn't want to be saved._

Yes, despite his grumpy ways and his potty mouth, he was a true friend. He just understood the way things were. And he treated her sister like a queen.

A queen who not very queenly plopped down on one of the kitchen stools. "I need to sit," she exhaled as Arya told her about the kidnapping and the tortures, about the witness protection programme and the new identities.

"And right before I came here, he invited me to go with him to the place where he lived after escaping this hell. And now– I don't know, Sansa. I want to, but... I can't."

"What are you talking about?" Sansa straightened up and stared at her little sister. The queen was back. "You _have_ to go. You have been sad for years, and I'm not exaggerating. You are _always_ sad, but today you are... You need him. Jaqen. Or Albert, or whatever he calls himself now." She would never remember the name right. "You deserve to be happy. Maybe it will work, maybe not. Maybe you'll be happy with him, maybe with someone else, but you'll never know if you never take the chance."

Yes, in less than twenty-four hours, that man had managed to turn her life upside down; he had made her understand that she needed him, that she could be finally happy with him.

She was sure it would work with Jaqen.

But with Albrecht?

*

The weekend came, and Arya was a nervous wreck.

She was afraid she could change her mind, so she had texted her decision to Jaqen right after talking with her sister. He had texted back a scant minute later – probably she was not the only one to be nervous – saying that he would pick her up at five on Friday afternoon, so that they could be at the farm in time for a late dinner.

He hadn't given her many details about the trip, only that they would be driving by Oxford.

Which was the first thing they discussed after she boarded the rented car he was driving.

"Die Schattenwölfe never made it to Canada, but I believe you made it to your degree, yes?"

Over the week, she often pondered what she should and should not tell him about the time they had been apart, but now words failed her, and she messily gave him a sketchy summary of the years she spent in the small university city.

She deliberately avoided mentioning the German classes she took. It was stupid, really; when they first met, she couldn't understand a word of his language, and learning it was a crazy way for her to feel his presence after he was gone.

What she couldn't avoid mentioning was that– "During the last year I met a guy." This he needed to know.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him tighten his grip on the steering wheel.

"He was always very... polite to me, and–" _He used to call me his princess._ Sometimes Arya forgot how stupid he was. How stupid she had been. "Our mutual friends convinced me to give him a chance." She gazed down at her hands resting in her lap. _He needs to know. He needs to know!_ "We got married right after graduation."

The car came to a screeching halt and Jaqen looked at her, his eyes almost out of their sockets. "You are _married?!_ "

"What? No!" She exclaimed. "Seven hells, no. Not anymore," she added in a whisper.

He reached over and placed his hand gently on hers. "Arya... I am sorry."

She couldn't tell if he was sorry for slamming on the brakes or about her divorce and she didn't really care because his thumb was caressing her wrist and his eyes were caressing her senses and everything else didn't matter anymore.

Until a car, honking impatiently, broke their bubble.

He hastily started the car again, and soon walls of trees were flashing by her window like they did before the unceremonious stop.

She silently thanked him for not asking questions, and neither of them spoke for a while.

"So, tell me more about these people who helped you," she said eventually.

"It was just one person, in fact. Her name is Umma. Long before I met her, when her husband was still alive, he tended to the farm and she worked as a nurse; that is why she knew how to treat my wounds. As soon as she saw me, she was aware that she could not take me to a hospital. I had cuts and bruises all over my body, broken fingers, a cracked rib... I still do not know how I was able to run all those miles." His hand was resting on the gear stick, and now it was her turn to reach over. "While I recovered, she became the mother I never had. And when Eva and Tommy found me, I had to leave her behind. I have not seen her since."

_And now he is taking_ me _to her._

A sudden panic hit her, and she started babbling.

"How come you never went back there? I mean, the way you describe it, it must be the perfect place for a getaway, with a– a friend or... a woman–"

"No one was worth it." His voice was silk and steel.

"So there has been someone in Albrecht Wolfram's life?" _Shut up! Just shut up!_ But the words were out of her lips before she could stop them.

"A girl is curious." His mouth twitched into a sad smile that quickly faded. "I could never have real relationships as Albrecht. I was not interested anyway." He extracted the hand that was still covered by hers on the gear stick and put it on the steering wheel to rejoin his other one. "There was a woman. Shae. We saw each other on and off for a while, but... I could never have real relationships."

Arya waited for him to continue because obviously there was more to it than that, but his mood had clearly shifted. And like he did earlier, she didn't ask questions.

But she didn't like to see him sad.

"I met Daario the other day when he came by the office, and we had a chance to speak at last." And she was genuinely impressed by his very good accent; if Jaqen hadn't told her, she would never have guessed his foreign origins. But remembering their first encounter, she couldn't help but chuckle. "I still think his name and features are downright farcical, but I must say he is quite skilled at his job after all. Who would have thought it?"

_That_ was enough to get a real smile out of Jaqen. "And how did it go with your boss?"

"Uh, let's say Lyanna usually chews up our clients and swallows them down, but this time she merely gnawed at him and spat him out, so I'd say it went well."

She could swear she heard him giggle at that point and it was the most endearing sound she ever heard.

*

Darkness had fully descended when they reached their destination – a remote valley in the heart of the Black Mountains, near Abergavenny, a Welsh town close to the English border.

Arya had never been there before, but she knew stories about the magic of those mountains, and she couldn't deny that she felt as though they had stepped into an alternate universe where calmness reigned.

Jaqen stopped the car in a small clearing where a few other vehicles were already parked.

"Is a girl ready?" He could barely hide his euphoria.

As soon as they got out of the car, they were greeted by a couple of beautiful – and quite lively – Bernese mountain dogs.

"Son! You are really here!" A pleasantly plump woman with streaks of silver in her hair trudged towards them with open arms. "I never thought, never dreamed that I would see you again!"

"Umma," Jaqen breathed as she crushed him in her arms.

Arya was getting her stuff from the back of the car, and all of a sudden a knot closed around her heart at seeing him next to the woman who was – for all intents and purposes – his true mother.

When he disentangled himself from the embrace, he gestured towards her. "Umma, this is–"

"Arya, Arya Stark, you are lovely indeed!" Arya was still holding her bags when the beaming woman grabbed her in another tight hug. She was a force of nature, and Arya loved her already. And of course, she made a mental note to ask Jaqen about what exactly he had told her about their relationship – about their past.  
  


As the dogs kept barking and jumping around in excitement, the three of them walked to the main farmhouse. Wonderful aromas filled the air; Arya was about to find out that Umma was an excellent cook. By the front door, she spotted a sign that read _The House of Red and Green,_ and while they ate, Umma explained that she had chosen the name because of the rich colours that painted the valley in autumn and spring, the seasons that attracted more tourists. Arya could not understand much else; Umma spoke to Jaqen most of the time in what must be a Welsh dialect. She didn't complain, though; she was not the only one who had Jaqen ripped away from her. They too needed their time together to reconnect. And truth be told, she was fascinated to listen to him speak; not only did he improve his second language, but he also learned a dialect.

When they were all finished eating, Jaqen stood and collected the dirty dishes. "And what about Walda? Is she still working at the farm?"

"Of course, of course, I always need help with cleaning around here. And she has a son now." Umma yawned. "She still goes to bed with the sun, but I am sure you two will manage to meet them both before you leave."

Jaqen grabbed the washing-up liquid from under the sink and started running the hot water. "You should go to bed as well; you have worn yourself out today because of us."

"I think you are right. Oh, leave the dishes for tomorrow," she told him as if she had just registered what he was doing. She must be tired indeed. "I will show you to your rooms."

With heavy steps she went to the small reception area next to the kitchen, and came back with a set of keys in her hand and a slight uneasiness on her face.

"My darlings, I completely forgot to tell you that I had to make some changes to your sleeping arrangements."

Jaqen looked at Umma, and Arya looked back and forth between them.

"What do you mean?" He asked confused as he dried his hands.

Umma continued. "Unexpected guests arrived right before you did, and they looked quite desperate; the town is fully booked apparently. I had to give them the room I had reserved for you, son. They are leaving early in the morning, so tomorrow the room will be all yours, but for tonight I am afraid you must stay with Arya in the eastern cottage."

All of a sudden the kitchen was wrapped in silence.

It was Arya who broke it. "I am sure we will make do, Umma, you were so kind to cook us this fantastic dinner, and I am so tired I think I could fall asleep on the floor."  
  


Jaqen seemed distant as Umma walked them to the small stone-walled house. "This is our most comfortable accommodation, you know, and the one located in the most favourable position on the hill." The old woman pulled Arya into an affectionate side hug. "That is why I decided to reserve it for a lovely girl."

When they entered the cottage, Umma showed them the big, snuggly couch on the ground floor and pointed at the king-size bed on the mezzanine; despite not having a room all to herself, Arya could still have some privacy after all, as Jaqen had promised.

"I will see you in the morning, and– Ah, the towels are in here," Umma added as she switched on the bathroom light. "And do not rush, you are on vacation and you must relax."

After another yawn she took her leave, bringing the front door gently closed behind her.

The cuckoo clock on the wall ticked about a dozen times before Jaqen spoke. "This, Arya... I did not know about this. I swear it."

She hoped the lightness in her voice could brighten his mood. "What I said before was not a lie. I just want a surface, whatever surface to lie upon so I can sleep. Besides, there's enough space in here for both of us. And even for Umma's gigantic dogs." Her lips curved up at the thought.

The cottage was quite large indeed. And it seemed like it came straight out of a fairy tale.

The space was dominated by a massive stone fireplace. The floor was covered here and there with thick rugs. Antique wood furnishings filled every corner. And the bed upstairs looked so comfortable.

Jaqen gave a faint smile at last and nodded towards the staircase. "Go to sleep, lovely girl. I will take the couch."

"I will go. But first thing in the morning, you tell me how it is that Umma calls me that too."

Maybe it was just the exhaustion or maybe the Black Mountains were magic indeed but that night for the first time in years she didn't feel repulsion towards herself when someone called her _lovely._

*

Arya slept like a log.

She woke up when the first rays of light poked through the windows and warmed her skin. She felt disoriented at first. The bed, the sheets, the smells... She was not home. And she never slept away from home.

She focused on her surroundings. Even without her contact lenses, she could tell that the round window in front of the bed framed a breathtaking view of the sun rising up from behind a mountain. She heaved a sigh of relief. The eastern cottage. That's where she was. _And that's why Umma called it the_ eastern _cottage,_ she realised.

She rubbed her eyes and watched as the early morning sky turned all sorts of colours; the lilac and purple and blue of the lingering night faded into bright shades of pink and orange and yellow, so many hues chasing each other and the sparse clouds, and the tiny window was not enough to contain them all.

She got out of bed and padded down the stairs. She wanted to see the whole valley bathed in sunlight.

What awaited her was way more enchanting than that.  
  


The front door was ajar. Some twenty feet away, in deep concentration, Jaqen was standing on the grass, facing the sun and the patches of pure white mist that filled the valley, assuming what appeared to be a tai chi stance.

Out of the blue she pictured him in the vast meditative spaces of the Hampstead house, and her breath caught in her throat once again.

She was mesmerised.

_The House of Red and Green._ Umma had chosen the perfect name for the farm too. The autumn colours blended with those of the sunrise in a visionary painting the likes of which Arya had seen only in her dreams.

And _that man._ That man, and his muscles flexing, his tank top clinging to him like a second skin. That man, and his sinuous movements, bringing the painting to life. Entrancing. He was entrancing. And he was–

–slowly turning towards her to assume a different stance and when he perceived her presence he comically widened his eyes, lost his concentration and fell on his arse.

While she was busy getting lost in her thoughts, she had walked up to him. Well, sneaked up on him, it seemed.

"Clever girl." He looked at her bare feet with a smirk. "You were trying to have me rolling down the side of the hill, yes?"

He stood up and brushed the grass off his sweatpants, and instinctively she grabbed his arms to stop him from falling again. "Oh, shut up, are you all right?" Or perhaps because she just wanted to.

His eyes travelled up her body. And his smirk disappeared.

Only then did she remember she was still in her pyjamas. Which consisted of a pair of boy shorts and her favourite – and well-worn – T-shirt. So well-worn that the cotton had become see-through in places. _Gods, what if he had seen–_

"Come." He looked away. "I have been exercising for a while, but you will freeze to death in this flimsy thing you are wearing."

He guided them back inside and hurried to wrap her in the quilt she had glimpsed the night before neatly folded on the arm of the couch.

A strong scent of spices seized her senses. The quilt was all crumpled up now; he must have slept in it.

She let the familiar scent surround her and closed her eyes.

And suddenly it was as if she were in his arms.

She tightened her grip on the quilt, relished the warmth all around her, the scent even stronger now.

When she finally opened her eyes, she gasped at finding him so close; his arms were wrapped around her for real.

For a long moment she didn't move, didn't breathe, she felt like in the painting she had seen outside and didn't want to wake up from her dream. He was stroking her back, up to her shoulders, back down, and she lifted her hands, slowly, _don't let me wake up,_ reached for his neck, _please,_ gazed down at his lips, his lips!, and back up into his eyes, his eyes that were staring into hers.

Staring into her.

And then the dream was gone.

"I will take a quick shower. Get dressed, lovely girl. Umma is waiting for us."

*

They broke their fast in silence.

Umma was almost finished when they joined her in the kitchen. As they ate, she moved around the house doing her everyday chores, sometimes stopping by the table for a word with Jaqen.

Arya envied the normalcy she had witnessed the night before, the way he moved in the kitchen as if he had never left. She wanted someone to be so at ease with her; she wanted _Jaqen_ to be so at ease with her. Why couldn't she have someone who was so at ease with her?

She lost her train of thought when Umma asked him about his plans for the day.

He had told Arya that she didn't have to stay with him the whole time if she didn't want to, so she had packed some books. Just in case. Several books, in fact. But now she felt that she didn't want to be anywhere else but with him.

" _Our_ plans," she said without thinking. Instantly her heart started thundering in her chest and her eyes fell in shame.

But then he spoke and– " _Our_ plans, of course." She heard the fondness in his voice and her heart was not thundering anymore. It was fluttering.

He was going to show her around the town since the weather seemed too unstable for his other _plan._ "But I _love_ hiking!"

As he tried to explain how even a small cloud might quickly become dangerous in those mountains, Umma left the kitchen once again. "The walk I had in mind is a little less than four hours, if you know the way. It ends up on Waun Fach, the highest point of the Black Mountains, and it is very exposed if we get caught in the rain, it gets too slippery and extremely muddy as well. With the right shoes, perhaps..." He flashed a look at her sneakers under the table. "I am sorry, I should have told you before. I was just not sure that you would want to join me for the hike. But I promise. I will take you flying one day. On a dragon's back."

"A dragon?" He was smiling but she could see the emotion that was rushing to his eyes.

"It is the name of the walk. The Dragon’s Back. The mountains there are shaped like a sleeping dragon. I used to go there often when I lived here because... Ah, it is so stupid, I know, but it made me feel closer to–"

_Aegon._

He cleared his throat. "I wanted to play the piano but I could not. For a year, almost. My fingers..." Slowly and deliberately he curled his hand into a fist and stared at it with contempt and grief, then suddenly he placed it against his mouth as he swallowed down a sob. " _He_ is the reason why Albrecht became a pianist."

He threw back the last of his tea as a tear slid from the corner of his eye and then they were silent again.  
  


Half an hour later they were wandering the woodlands at the back of the farm. She had convinced him that they could at least go for a short walk nearby so that she could try out her new camera, but the truth was that she knew he was not ready to drive into town, to be surrounded by people; what he needed now was to be surrounded by _his_ places.

She could see with even more clarity now why he loved it there. It was not just for the beautiful scenery. Those mountains were a sanctuary, desolate, quiet, in which to reconnect with history and nature; with oneself.

"Wales has a bleak, dramatic beauty," he told her as she snapped dozens of pictures. "It is not wilderness, but the wild element is always simmering under the surface."

She snapped dozens of pictures – of the vegetation, the landscape. Of him. When he was not looking. Because she had never had one and she didn't know what was going to happen when the weekend was over.

And she didn't want to admit that she _wanted_ to have one.

She was putting a new roll of film in her camera when they parked the car in Abergavenny. The _short_ walk took much longer than anticipated, and it was too late now to visit the whole town as he had planned, so he was going to take her straight to the main attraction, the Norman castle, now in ruins.

"But first, a man will feed you." He smiled. And this time it was a radiant smile.  
  


After a simple meal in a pub, they strolled through the idyllic meadows that stretched out alongside the Usk, the river that flowed by the town. From there, a brick path took them to the castle grounds. When they finally got to the ruins, they realised they were holding hands.

"In the 1100's this castle was the scene of an infamous, bloody massacre."

As they walked along the high curtain wall, the most impressive part of the ruins, Jaqen narrated the story of the once powerful and imposing castle.

"The lord of Abergavenny was killed, reputedly by some Welsh chieftains. Years later, over Christmas, the new lord invited those chieftains to the castle, supposedly as an act of reconciliation. But," he paused for effect, "while they were feasting, and the ale was flowing, the doors to the castle's great hall were suddenly locked, and the Normans had the Welsh executed in retribution for the old lord's death. Eventually the castle was taken by the Welsh, and to avenge this brutal murder it was set afire."

"Wow. They should call that the Red Christmas."

She took more pictures of the castle, and he joked about how selling a property of that kind would be the deal of a lifetime.

"This job... It's not just about the money," she confessed. "I want to help people feel safe. And home is the place where you feel safe. I like to help them find the best place for them, the right place. Everyone deserves to feel safe."

They stopped before what once must have been a window to admire the bleeding sky beyond.

The setting sun bathed them in a soft orange glow, and suddenly he threw his arms around her and hugged her.

"Arya... You shine when you are working... Your enthusiasm, your passion... I have always loved the commitment you show in everything you do." He buried his face in her hair and she almost missed what he whispered next. "Ich hab' dich immer geliebt."

She pulled back abruptly and watched him. He looked so lost as he gazed at her in wonder.

And she felt so scared.

The week before– No, this was Jaqen, _her_ Jaqen.

But he left her, he died, but he was alive, he was there, and she deserved to be happy, but she was a burden, and he didn't deserve a burden, he was perfect, and he was not hers anymore, but his warm hands were holding her face, and she wanted, she wanted...

She wanted the pain to end.

Closing her eyes, she pressed her lips to his.

The week before she lied. To him. To herself. She didn't want to lie anymore.

She clinged to him as she felt the intoxicating taste of him explode against her tongue and her tears dampen her cheeks for the intensity of her yearning.

She wanted him. She wanted to drown in him.

But suddenly–

_No one will want you like that._

Memories. Punishing her. Once again.

_We're losing her, we're losing her!_

"No, not again," she muttered as she broke away from him, her eyes filling and her chin quivering. "No..."

And the dagger. Stabbing her.

_We did all we could but the damage was too great._

"No, no, no!" She cried out as she pushed him away.

"Arya!"

Again and again.

_I can't do this. I tried, but it's not the same anymore. You won't find my things when you come back from work._

"No! Please..." She tried so hard to be brave, to be fierce as a wolverine and all, but now her tears were flowing freely and her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

"What's happening? What's happening?!" Jaqen made to hold her again but she jerked back. "Arya, talk to me!"

"Fucking hells, I loved you, Jaqen, I loved you too!" She screamed. "I _want_ to love you, but the ones I love always leave me!"

After a last, harsh sob she went silent. She had no more tears left in her.

"Take me back to the cottage," she said miserably as the wind howled and her cheeks dampened again, this time for the first raindrops of a coming storm.

He needed to know everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. At this point I guess it's fair to assume that the utter dastard Sansa mentioned in chapter 1 is not Jaqen, yes?
> 
> "Wales has a bleak, dramatic beauty. It is not wilderness, but the wild element is always simmering under the surface."  
> (Owen Sheers)
> 
> ich hab' dich immer geliebt – I have always loved you


	6. Mine is yours to drown in

~ j ~ a ~ q ~ e ~ n ~

They were drenched by the time they got to the car.

The sky darkened and the temperature dropped several degrees in the span of just a few minutes. And as he drove them back to the farm, thin streaks of lightning reached down to the earth while loud, ceaseless thunder rolled across the hills.

When they entered the cottage, she rushed to get some dry clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. Within moments he heard the shower running so he proceeded to shed his wet clothes and put on a dry shirt and pants.

He should go. He should pack his stuff and ask Umma for the key to his room, the room that she had surely prepared for him by now, but he was freezing cold, and Arya must be as well, so he hurried to start the fire instead. As a single word kept resounding in his head.

_Married._

It was so good to be back to his mother. And the woman he had finally admitted he loved was with him. She had even chosen to spend the day with him. But he had missed so much of her life. And now her revelation, her tears. His heart broke when he saw her tears, falling faster than the raindrops outside.

Gods, he felt like shit.

The bathroom door opened and he turned to look at her. Her eyes low, she padded to the couch and when she sat down he joined her.

The fire in front of them was going strong now, and soon they were surrounded by a pleasant warmth.

Staring into the flames, she spoke her first words since they left the castle ruins.

"I need to tell you about my... crises." She sighed. "About my ex."

He knew she wasn't watching him but he nodded anyway.

"I told you I was married–"

"And that you are not anymore."

She shot him a look.

Of course. The mic wasn't his this time. He must let her speak.

"He was happy to be with me. And I thought I was happy to be with him. I thought I loved him. We led a normal life, uneventful perhaps, but our jobs kept us pretty busy, and perhaps we didn't have enough time to worry about it. Until something happened."

She paused and he repositioned himself on the couch, folding one leg under him so as to face her.

"One night we were walking home from a restaurant and someone approached us in a dark alley. A woman. A robber. She looked so small and bony, like a waif. But then she grabbed me with such force. She drew a dagger from her boot and threatened to plunge it in my stomach unless we did as she asked. My ex seemed to cooperate. At first. Because then... he wanted to play hero... when the blade was scratching _my_ belly," she muttered through clenched teeth. "He made to lunge at her but of course her hand was faster. She slashed me, and stabbed me," she punched her thigh, "again, and again," so violently that out of instinct Jaqen reached out so that her punches landed on his palm and she didn't hurt herself. At that, she finally looked at him and clasped his hand, mimicking the motion of the blade. "She twisted the fucking dagger in my guts while _the hero_ at the sight of my blood just passed out."

"Arya..." He tried to pull her to him but flinching she let go of his hand and stood up from the couch.

"The waif let me fall to the ground and ran away," she continued as she paced nervously across the rug in front of the fireplace. "I don't know how long I was left there bleeding out. I was delirious. I remember dreaming of a magical pool, drinking from it, and I swear I could feel the water healing my tissues. But I guess what I felt were just my insides rotting away. When finally someone walked by and they rushed me to the hospital, it was too late. There was rust on the blade. They had... They couldn't..." She stopped pacing, her back to him. "Jaqen, I can't have children anymore."

A violent crash of thunder chose that moment to explode.

And something inside him exploded as well.

"Arya." He stood as she turned to him, and the next moment she was in his arms.

The storm raged outside, the stone walls of the cottage sealing them from the rest of the world, and he just held her, stroked her hair, felt her heart beat close to his.

He truly had missed so, so much of her life. Lost for words, he only knew that he didn't want to miss anything else.

Eventually they went back to the couch. He refused to let her go this time; he pulled her down with him as he sat and she curled up next to him.

He laid a kiss on her forehead and soon she spoke again.

"Once I was back home, everything changed. We became strangers, my husband and I, two people who shared a house and a life for the sake of appearances. He realised just then that he desperately wanted children, when I'd never even been sure I wanted any. But it didn't matter anymore, because I had just been deprived of the choice. Then one morning he just left. He left me. He fucking put me in danger, and then... He left because I couldn't give him what he wanted." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "What _his family_ wanted, apparently. When we met again, when we sold the house, they were all so mean to me. Being a woman means so much more than birthing babies, I know that. But he made me feel useless. And..." She chuckled contemptuously. "No one would want a scarred, useless thing, right?"

_He was just a stupid liar,_ Jaqen thought. _Ein feiges Riesenarschloch._

He remembered when Tommy once told him about the claddagh ring, one of the symbols of his Irish heritage. A symbol of loyalty, friendship and love.

Arya's ex husband had stripped her of all three.

She looked deep in thought then, and Jaqen resumed stroking her hair as they listened to the rain pattering against the windows and tapping on the grass and the tree leaves outside.

He was startled when he heard her voice again.

"This morning, when I was wearing–"

"The flimsy thing?"

"The flimsy thing, yes." Finally, finally a small smile softened her face. "I was afraid you had seen them." But it was already gone. "The scars."

He had seen something, yes. Something she hadn't given him permission to see. The outline of her breasts. Her nipples, hard from the cold, poking through her T-shirt. Seeking his touch. He wanted to sink to his knees and worship them, envelop them in his mouth, one by one, and suck on them until they were warm and even harder against his tongue.

"I was so happy this morning. I hadn't slept so well in years."

"These mountains are magic," he cut in, casting his lustful thoughts aside. "I always have trouble sleeping at night. And bad dreams." Disturbing dreams. Of Aegon. His wanting to die. His asking Jaqen's permission to die. The macabre comfort that in Jaqen's dreams his brother was still with him. "But last night was... peaceful."

"I always have bad dreams too," she echoed. "And flashbacks. When something good happens, I have these flashbacks, these _crises,_ because I still feel useless, Jaqen, I feel I don't deserve the good things that are happening to me, and I ruin everything. When we kissed, I ruined everything."

_When we– Oh._ Now everything was clear.

"No. No, _he_ ruined everything!" She spat.

She shook her head and another long silence stretched between them.

"I get so angry sometimes. I was angry, with him." She hesitated. "With you."

He let out a slow, sad sigh.

"For a while, I was angry at Sansa too. Now I know that there was only one thing that would make her happy – my brother-in-law. But when she decided to follow him back to Scotland after his job transfer was over, I was angry because she left me too."

She looked away, her hair swinging over her cheek, hiding her face.

"Everyone leaves me. And I'm angry because I'm just a burden. A sad little burden who couldn't even cry anymore. I hadn't cried since that day at the hospital when they told me... When they... _That_ was the last time I cried. The last time I was out of my house, socialised with people. I just threw myself into my work, the only thing I'm good at. I don't _want_ to go out. I told you I like the Hampstead house. Because it's secluded. It's... safe." She took a deep breath. "I have been weak for years, Jaqen. I don't want to be weak anymore."

"Oh, Arya _Stark._ The _strength_ is you." He pulled her closer, knowing now that somehow she could understand what he meant. "And _I_ am the burden, the product of foster houses that never felt like home, never let me feel safe. Back then I thought that being in the band helped me, but I long since realised that I was just hiding, hiding behind a strange speech pattern because deep down I only wanted to abnegate myself. I was no one, truly, until the moment I saw you. Until I saw the sunrise in your eyes. And only then did I finally feel safe."

He only felt selfish now, though. For plaguing her with his troubles all over the past few days. What he had always seen as a decade of sufferings and solitude and sacrifices was suddenly meaningless. Not only had she thought him dead for years, she had been humiliated and abandoned, and now he was back in her life with all his emotional issues in tow.

Gods, he truly felt like shit.

He should go. He should be in his own room now.

But those grey and lonely eyes, bewitching, bewitching eyes!, they kept him rooted to the spot.

He slid down from the couch and knelt in front of her, resting his hands on her knees.

"I want to see them," he heard himself say. "Let me see them. Please."

He watched her as a multitude of feelings crossed her face.

Then, quiet as a shadow, she lifted the oversized sweater she was wearing, just enough for her hands to unbutton her pants. When she was done, her hands stilled. And he berated himself for having asked too much.

But then she grabbed the hem of her sweater, and holding his gaze she pulled it over her head. Underneath she was only wearing her bra, but what shocked him into stillness was lower.

Jaqen had been whipped and burned, but his scars were nothing compared to this.

Hesitantly he reached out and brushed his fingertips across her belly. He stood on his knees. He should go now. He should.

Instead he found himself leaning down and kissing her scarred skin.

"Thank you," he breathed. "For telling me."

He kissed every inch of her belly, and he didn't realise he was nestled between her legs now, he didn't realise her fingers were threaded in his hair, pulling him upwards. Pulling him to her breasts.

When he did, transfixed he gazed at her, lost, as lost as he had been at the castle when all this began. But he didn't stop.

He kissed and nibbled at her skin, nuzzling along the edges of the fabric that still covered her, as his hands ran up and down her sides. When he reached behind her, she leaned forward allowing him to unclasp her bra.

He stopped then and looked into her eyes again. Eyes heavy with wonder. And longing. And love?

She took off her bra and tossed it aside. He swallowed hard.

Kneeling before the altar of her body, he could finally worship her.

"Arya..."

She gasped when he leaned in to suck on the tender flesh of one nipple, catching the other between his index and middle fingers as his hands kneaded her breasts.

She arched into him, whimpering, pulling his head closer, as his mouth kept moving against her skin. And when he felt her hips bucking against him, without a second thought he grabbed her pants and panties with both hands and yanked them down her legs.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, as a flood of sweet memories came back to him.

They gazed at each other as he trailed his hands up her thighs, closer and closer to her centre. She was shivering under his touch, and when his name escaped her lips the only thing he wanted was to hear it again while she came.

He dragged her forward to the edge of the couch, hooked her legs over his shoulders and covered her with his mouth.

"Jaqen!" She cried out as his tongue slid through her folds.

He looked up and met her eyes as he tasted her, the thunderstorm still raging outside, a firestorm now raging inside.

He spread her with his fingers and licked her leisurely as she rocked against his face and he watched her in awe. His lovely, beautiful girl. His perfect girl.

When his thumb found her clit, her head rolled back and she closed her eyes.

"No, watch me," he growled as he detached his mouth from her glistening flesh.

She let out a loud gasp and her eyes flew open. He wouldn't let her go to that dark place again.

"Think about me. Think about this," he murmured as he lowered his head and plunged his tongue deep inside her.

Her arms flew up and she grabbed at the back of the couch as she cried out again.

She moaned his name incessantly as he fucked her with his tongue, and he groaned against her when her body stiffened suddenly and she clenched around him as a violent orgasm took her over.

He tightened his grip around her, watched her lovely face gloriously contorted with pleasure. Prayed that he truly wouldn't miss anything else.

When she calmed down, her lips still parted, she stared at him with hooded eyes, tears pooled at the corners.

He wanted to kiss her so badly.

Quick as a snake, she pulled herself up and pushed him back until he was lying flat on the rug, his arms spread out, her thighs framing his hips. She leaned forward until her face was so close that they shared the same breath.

So, so badly.

But when they kissed– No, he would wait for her. Wait until she was ready.

"I want you naked," she whispered before attacking his neck, and his hands shot to her hips, her back, her shoulders, and, Gods!, he almost wished she didn't want it because there was something insanely erotic about having her pressed against his clothed body while she was completely naked.

As her mouth ravaged his skin, her fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt and he filled his hands with her buttocks, his hips pushing against her sex.

Oh.

Oh, his erection, fully forgotten while seeking her pleasure, weeping need in the tight confinement of his pants.

Easing his shirt open as her hands moved lower, she buried her nose in his chest, purring with contentment. "You always smell so good."

He cracked a smile. "Always ginger and cloves."

He remembered how she liked it. He remembered everything.

His blood burned under the trail of wet kisses she left down his body, and he groaned with an abandon he had never known when she got to his pants, oh Gods, for she took him in her hands the moment she got them unbuttoned.

She tightened her grasp on him as her mouth travelled south, bit his hip bones and further, further until she reached the base of his cock. She traced the whole length of him with the tip of her tongue and, fuck!, he hid his face in his hands as she swallowed him whole.

She trapped him between her lips and sucked him hard, noisily, and when she pulled his foreskin over the head and shoved her tongue under it, he almost lost it.

He needed her to stop. He would definitely embarrass himself if she didn't. He hadn't been with anyone since Shae, and– The mere thought of her made him want to vomit. He had been such a fool to give in to her toxic advances. He didn't know if the programme would ever end, and one day he just gave in. A day he would forever regret.

"Gods, Arya!" The wet heat of her mouth engulfing one of his testicles brought him very acutely back to the present.

He needed her. Now.

He pulled her up to straddle him again.

"I wasn't finished," she pouted her adorable pout.

She could have all night to suck him off. Hells, all her life. If she wanted to. But now he needed to be inside her.

"I missed you," she breathed, "all of you," as she wrapped her fingers around him.

_Oh, lovely girl._ "Say it again."

She grinned. "All of you."

He made a face. But the next second he was grinning as well.

His cock in her hand, she rubbed herself against him, the contact drawing shivers from them both, until slowly she lifted her hips, and trembling she sank down, down until she completely surrounded him.

She stilled. She bit her lip.

"Jaqen, I missed you."

He watched the firelight dancing in her eyes, the heat flickering over her skin and washing over him.

He should never have left her. He should have told the band to fuck off and he should have stayed.

He shuddered with painful pleasure when she splayed her hands over his chest, her fingers kneading his flesh and her nails raking his skin at the same time as she squeezed her walls around his cock.

Gods, the feel of her, so warm and tight around him, caressing him so intimately, strangling him in the most sinful way, and her skin, oh, her skin against his, all over him.

He had missed her so much too.

And, yes, all of her. He couldn't deny it.

His fingers dug into her hips when she started to move, and he watched mesmerised as his cock filled her and left her, and filled her and left her again.

"Jaqen, you can move, I'm not a doll," she whispered as she squeezed him again, and all at once he realised he was holding back indeed. He was afraid he could hurt her somehow.

She knew her body, knew what she wanted, and he would never insult her by making decisions for her. In bed or otherwise.

Arching his back, he pushed himself into her.

The wet noises their bodies made drove him wild and soon he was dragging her up and down shamelessly, her lips quivering every time he let her sink back onto his cock.

She leaned back, bracing herself on his legs, and he grasped her hips tighter, holding her in place as he drove faster inside her core.

As she reached for her sex with one hand, his gaze tore away from her face and he watched with rapt attention as she stroked herself in time with his thrusts.

When he looked up again, her eyes were closed.

"Arya, watch me," he panted between thrusts. "Stay with me."

"Oh, but I can see you," she moaned softly, keeping her eyes closed. "I can feel you."

That was it. He wouldn't wait any longer.

He sat up, urgently, and she could barely blink because his hand tangled in her hair and yanking her against him he sealed his mouth over hers.

He lost himself in the taste of her, the feel of her!, his mouth unrestrained and rough, her fingers trapped between their bodies, working her clit.

When she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, he gripped her shoulders and pushed inside her, deeper, harder, his heart beating frantically.

He would stay inside her forever, loving her into eternity.

He came with a strangled moan, grinding her down on him until she pulsed and clamped around his cock, squeezing out of him all that was left of his seed, her own release ripping a raw moan from her throat.

Panting and clutching at each other, he fell back on the rug and she collapsed on top of him.

As the last of the logs crackled in the fireplace, she curled into his arms to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ein feiges Riesenarschloch – a cowardly giant asshole  
> stark – strong ("Oh, Arya _Stark._ The _strength_ is you.")

**Author's Note:**

> Follow the tag [btgale](https://ewinofthelake.tumblr.com/tagged/btgale) on [my tumblr](https://ewinofthelake.tumblr.com) for more pics, previews of the next chapters and possible spoilers ;)


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